


Easter 1976

by marilynhanson



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-12 10:27:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2106261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marilynhanson/pseuds/marilynhanson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rambling conversations during Easter break of 1976, featuring a revelation, a confession, and unplatonic cuddling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Easter 1976

**Author's Note:**

> Content warning for weed and alcohol mentions, no usage.

Remus wiggles his left thumb through the hole he wore through his sweater sleeve back when it was new, catches the soft fabric between thumb and forefinger, and stretches it a bit. The inch or so of wool looped around his finger is pilling and grey. If Sirius notices, he'll swat at his wrist until he stops because the jumper is, admittedly, darned and tattered and in no need of new holes, but it soothes him. And Sirius won't notice now, anyway – Remus notices when Sirius does his noticing, and now Sirius sits beside him, thrumming with the kind of energetic boyishness that comes to him as naturally as breathing, and Remus knows that Sirius's primary concern is being noticed. 

“And Moony you should have seen Snape's face, the great sniveling prat, looked like he'd stepped barefoot in a puddle of bubotuber pus – now there's an idea, eh? – but anyway he stands there, his great stupid gob hanging open, and I've still got a dungbomb in my pocket...” 

He continues. Spring sunlight filters through the frosty window and falls on his face, sharpening his cheekbones and softening the grey of his eyes. Sirius's supply of words is inexhaustible, Remus knows; his stories are renewable resources. He has recycled this one three times since the start of Easter break, each time imbuing it with the precise balance of humor and as much suspense as it can hold. The story isn't even good, and he knows he should interrupt to tell Sirius to lay off Snape, but Remus can't help it. He listens. His favorite part has come: Mirth twists Sirius's red mouth into an open smile, his laugh reminiscent of Padfoot's bark, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. 

“You really should have been there, Moony, I needed backup when McGonagall got there; she likes you more than me.”

“Untrue,” Remus says, and it isn't. “If she didn't like you and James, you'd spend all of your time polishing silver in the trophy room instead of the current average of thirty percent of it.” 

“You're the one with the badge,” says Sirius. From Peter – or even James, though he'd die rather than admit it – the words would carry a trace of envy, but on Sirius's lips they simply tease. 

“Look at my competition. Our year doesn't have much to boast about in terms of burgeoning authoritarian powers. I got it by default.” It's true. Thus far in his semester-long career as a house prefect, Remus has taken five points, and they were from himself. A rising Head Boy, he is not.

“Damn right you did, can you imagine her face if she knew about the Firewhiskey you smuggle in. Granted it's usually at James's request, but still. You're lucky Rosmerta likes you so damned much.” His eyes twinkle. “Not to mention your other vices. Speaking of which, has Mundungus provided? Be nice, unwind a bit before exams start up --” 

“That's medicinal. And you don't get particularly wound about exams anyway.” 

“That's not an answer.” 

“The answer's no. Dung's been useless lately, and next Hogsmeade weekend's not till after the full moon. So much for that.” 

“Damn.” 

Sirius's arm is around his shoulders and his gangly legs are tossed over Remus's. Sirius never runs out of words and never seems to crave his own space. He smells like cigarette smoke and very faintly of dog. Remus nudges him over and stretches his legs. It's an easy, familiar tangle of bony limbs and sharp edges. It does not seem particularly masculine – Remus gets the sense that it isn't a very Teenage Boy thing to do – but James and Peter care about that sort of thing more than Sirius does, and neither of them are here. 

“Your hair is in my mouth.” It is. Sirius's hair is not delicious, though it is quite soft. 

“Your mouth is in my hair,” says Sirius, but he shifts slightly and lays his head on Remus's chest. “You are unfortunately bony.” 

“Find someone else to lay on,” he says lazily. 

“If I do that, you'll start cuddling your books. I don't want to see that.” 

Cuddling. That's what they're doing. It isn't so much the acknowledgment of it that makes Remus's neck heat as it is the fact that _Sirius_ acknowledges it. Sirius is cuddling him, and Sirius knows that, and he isn't ceasing the cuddling on the grounds of Insufficient Manliness. 

“Weird being here alone. I mean, Wormy always leaves for breaks, I reckon his mum wraps him in bubble wrap and plops him in their linen closet, but I can't believe Prongs left us for France. The tosser. Hope he chokes on a snail.” 

“He didn't seem particularly excited about it. I think his mum rather insisted he go. He'd probably rather be here.” 

“Still. Moons over Evans the whole bloody term, then bails out over the hols.” 

“He's not that bad about Lily. It's just when she's, y'know. Around.” 

“Which is all the time. The rest of us manage to fancy people without composing odes to their lily-white skin and emerald orbs and all that shite just fine, dunno why he can't.” 

Remus fancies Sirius. The realization washes over him gently, and he is not particularly surprised by it, as he has been resisting the urge to card his fingers through Sirius's hair for the past half hour, a gesture that strikes him as decidedly unplatonic. _I am a werewolf, an undeserving Prefect, queer as a bent Sickle, and I fancy Sirius._ He is quiet, mulling over it in his mind, feeling the gentle press of Sirius's fingertips into his skin. Sirius is mercurial, haughty, and razor-sharp, but still. There are worse people to fancy. 

“Remus?”

“Mmm?” 

“Thanks for staying. Over the break, I mean, I know you did it 'cause I stayed, and you didn't need to really but you're a mate for doing it, and you won't have to, much longer, anyway, but you did this time and. Well. Thanks.” 

For the first time, Sirius seems to have run out of words. Trepidation does not suit the natural smoothness of his voice, and Remus dimly thinks that silence coaxes more out of Sirius Black than any winding conversation. Denying that he stayed for Sirius seems pointless, and explaining that he does not want to be anywhere else makes something in his stomach lurch in a terribly unplatonic way, so instead he latches onto the peculiarity tacked to the end of Sirius's clumsy thanks. 

“What do you mean, I won't have to much longer?” 

“I think I'm leaving. This summer, I mean. At Christmas, James's mum and dad said I could stay with them whenever I like, and I reckon if I get a job down in the village I could help pay my way, and it'd just be for this summer and the next. Then we're all on our own anyway, yeah?” 

Remus is quiet. Sirius's tongue has resumed its normal ease and words spill from it like water from a tap. 

“It's just, I'm sick of it, Remus. Pureblood this and half-breed that, they're just waiting on me to get of age so I can fuck a cousin and give them some Black spawn. They just want to weave a bit more thread into that bloody tapestry.” 

He pauses, the muscles in his back tight with anger, questioning for a split second whether he wants to continue. And then, he does.

“And Regulus – I fucking warned him, but you've seen him with Mulciber. He's already wormed his way in with that lot.” Remus feels the clench of his jaw against his chest. “I'm not waiting around to watch him become one of them. If he's chosen, that's his own goddamn fault, but I don't have to sit around and watch.” 

Remus feels too young and too old. He thinks about placing his hand on Sirius's wrist, or his lips against his neck, but he remains still. 

“The Potters adore you anyway. It'll work out fine.” The words taste watered down, weak in his mouth. He does not mention Regulus, and he doubts that Sirius will again. A beat of silence passes, a split second too long to believe Sirius's voice when it returns to joviality. 

“Who wouldn't?” 

This is intrinsic to Sirius's nature, the instantaneous switch from dark to light, brooding to laughter. Something sparks inside of him and sweeps him from one mood to the next with no warning, and Sirius is a tidal wave in that he pulls Remus under with him. Sirius allots room for one emotion at a time, embraces it, then eventually releases it only to grab onto the next with equal ferocity. 

Remus finds him overwhelming, and terrifying, and inescapable. 

“Who indeed?”


End file.
